


Comme si de rien n'etait

by Jane St Clair (3jane)



Category: Star Trek: The Next Generation, Star Trek: Voyager
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2011-08-06
Updated: 2011-08-06
Packaged: 2017-10-22 06:50:18
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Underage
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,311
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/235092
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/3jane/pseuds/Jane%20St%20Clair
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>The captain was not pleased to discover civilians in his battle zone.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Comme si de rien n'etait

**Author's Note:**

> This is old, old songfic. I apologize.

The captain had not been pleased to discover civilians in the midst of his battle zone.

The Enterprise had been on routine patrol in sector 005 when reports came in that a separatist  
faction from Cygnus V had taken control of the USS Stephen Hawking. The unarmed research  
vessel had only managed to get their distress call off twice before communications were  
disrupted. Starfleet command reported that the region should be quiet enough: there were no  
logged civilian flight plans that came within fifteen light years of the Hawking's last reported  
position and no regular shipping lanes. Orders to get the terrorists, alive if possible, dead if  
necessary, off the Hawking and into custody.

If Captain Picard thought privately that Fleet was sending a flamethrower to knock out an anthill  
by dispatching the Enterprise, he didn't comment. The Federation flagship couldn't always do  
elite duty, he supposed. Terrorist action was a constant problem in an alliance as massive as the  
Federation, but it tended to be dealt with quickly, cleanly, and quietly, affording whatever group  
it was as little press as possible. Still, clean was a relative term. He was grateful not to have  
gawkers about, waiting to be shot, if only by mistake.

So he was not pleased when Wesley Crusher turned to him and reported that five civilian ships  
had entered the sector and were apparently crossing into the danger zone.

"Change course!" Picard snapped. "Intercept them, damn it!"

The ships in question were not the sort he normally thought of as "civilian." They were flying in  
military formation. Perfect military formation. The vessels' design might almost have been  
mistaken for Fleet fighters. Only the lack of insignia denied a Fleet origin. Well, that and the  
extremely loud music they were broadcasting in lieu of an identification signal. Faced with the  
sheer bulk of the Enterprise, they stood down and hovered in formation a mere five kilometres  
from the larger ship's saucer section.

"Identifications received sir," Data reported. "Ships identified as Circe, Europa, Alcyone,  
Meleagre, and Ganymede. Earth registry. The flight plan they logged this morning places them  
in sectors 001 and 002, simple formation exercises close to earth. They are," the android raised  
his eyebrows, "rather notably off-course."

"Mr. Worf, open a channel," Picard ordered.

"Open, sir."

"This is Captain Jean-Luc Picard of the USS Enterprise to Earth-registered ships. You have  
strayed into a terrorist zone, in violation of your flight plan, and have placed yourselves in grave  
danger. In accordance with Starfleet regulation 591, subsection alpha, I am taking your ships and  
all those aboard into protective custody. Prepare for tractor lock."

On screen, the silver arms of tractor beams caught the tiny vessels and swept them into a vacant  
shuttle bay. Picard sat back in his chair and frowned.

"Mr. Crusher, I have an unfortunate duty for you. I want you to go down to shuttlebay three and  
collect our guests."

"Yes sir. Where would you like me to take them?" The boy kept his face carefully  
expressionless, but a small tightening around his eyes betrayed his dismay. So young. Jack's  
dark eyes and hair, Jack's expression, sweet and determined all at once. The captain pulled his  
attention back to the young officer's question.

"Hmm. Guest quarters on deck eleven, or Ten-Forward if they prefer. We must keep in mind  
that these people *are* our guests and not our prisoners. And don't take it personally, Mr.  
Crusher. If I was unhappy with your performance, I would have come up with something even  
more unpleasant for you to do."

Wesley looked carefully at his captain. Had that been a joke? He wasn't always sure. Shrugging  
to himself, he relinquished the conn and left the bridge.

*****

At close range, Wesley Crusher could see that the ships they had collected had never been  
designed to hold more than one, or at the most two people each. But he didn't see anyone in the  
bay except the crewman who'd supervised the docking. He was solidly into the room before he  
spotted the others.

There were five of them. Resting casually by their ships in black semi-military flight suits, they  
gazed impassively at the crewman and, as Wesley became visible, widened their focus to include  
him. Three women, two men. No, that wasn't quite right. They were absolutely glossy, slick as  
the images in a fashion vid, and most were wearing dark glasses that concealed their expressions,  
but they weren't adults. Older than Wesley, but not by much, maybe seventeen or eighteen to his  
sixteen years.

The reaction that developed as he got closer was definitely uncomfortable. Looks were  
exchanged amongst the five, and a current as strong as a telepathic message radiated from them.  
Surprise, bemusement, amusement. Contempt. The boy with his back pressed to the Ganymede  
took off his glasses very slowly, a deliberate statement of fashion and something very like power.

The eyes behind the shades were an impenetrable blue.

"Our babysitter," the boy announced to the room at large, "has arrived." He rose gracefully to his  
feet and Wesley was surprised to see that he was shorter than the stranger by four or five inches.  
He shifted uncomfortably, thinking he was resented. He was used to dealing with that from  
adults, but from people his own age it was . . . disturbing. Instinctively, he retreated behind a  
barrier of formality.

"Welcome to the Enterprise. If you'll follow me . . ."

Crusher turned without waiting for them to move and paced back towards the door. He was most  
of the way out before the crewman's uncomfortable cough drew his attention back. No one had  
moved. The stranger who had spoken earlier was still rooted to the spot; the others were sitting.  
One hand moved up in a fluid gesture and swept the golden hair back off his forehead. He  
smiled, not quite a smirk, and locked gazes with the ensign. Crusher found himself growing  
steadily more uncomfortable under those eyes.

"Paris, let the kid be." One of the girls, the one without glasses, straightened and gave the blond  
an ugly look. She crossed the bay and held her hand out to Wesley. "Joanna McCoy."

He took it. "Wesley Crusher."

She cocked and eyebrow at him. "Son of Jack Crusher?"

Surprise. "Yeah."

She nodded to herself. "Um-hmm." Subject closed. She gestured at the others. "Iyami Nogura,  
Irene Jacobson, Jessica Matthews." A pause. "Tom Paris." The blond's smile crossed the thin  
line into smirk and he bowed slightly. "So," she said. "Let's go." The other followed them into  
the hall.

"You look a little young for an ensign," the girl introduced as Jessica said.

"It's, um, unofficial," Wesley said. "I haven't been through the academy yet." The others  
absorbed this in silence, but he could hear their eyebrows rising.

"You want to be in Starfleet that badly," Joanna said. He liked her tone. It was half a question,  
as if she were totally delighted. He nodded.

"Why?"

The question stopped Wesley in his tracks. He'd head that voice already, the blond from the  
shuttlebay. But it wasn't the bluntness so much as the question itself. He'd never asked why, he'd  
known for years, since his father died, that he needed to be in Fleet, the way he needed to  
breathe. It was important. It was Starfleet. It was the Enterprise. It was the feel of the helm  
under his fingers, cool glass and power . . .

"I need to fly," he said finally.

There was a pause while the others digested this. Wes raised his eyes and studied the blond's  
face. The drawling sarcasm had vanished for an instant, replaced by a clear, intense expression  
that wasn't quite joy or anger. Then the boy's attention returned and his blue eyes met Wes's dark  
ones. And he smiled, and it wasn't quite so ugly. "OK," he said, as though the answer had been  
the most natural possible one.

Wes turned, led them down the hall, and called for deck eleven as they stepped into the turbolift.  
He was struck by the way the strangers moved. Most newcomers to a starship were awkward in  
the artificial gravity and the close confines of the halls, but these people moved the way he did.  
They moved like people who had lived more of their lives in space than planetside.

"Who are you?" Wes demanded suddenly.

"Spacemen in waiting," said the blond softly. What was his name? Paris. "Starfleet brats."

Wes looked him over. "Paris as in Admiral Paris."

"Of course as in admiral. That's what Fleet brat means." That bitter tone that he didn't know  
how to react to.

Uncomfortable silence. Wes showed them to their rooms on deck eleven. Joanna gave him a  
smile, the others nods. Paris vanished last into his anonymous room, tense and silent. He hadn't  
spoken since the turbolift. The door slid shut and inch from Wesley's nose.

*****

Ten captured terrorists later, the Enterprise turned to stardock, the damaged Hawking in tow.  
Picard had retired to his ready room as soon as the situation was under control, leaving  
Commander Riker the bridge. Wesley Crusher was back in his seat at the conn, oddly pensive  
but working too well to be questioned for his mood. The ensign had reported as much  
information as he had gained from their guests. Enough that Picard had chosen to take the lot of  
them back to stardock rather than let a group of adolescents loose in what was still insecure  
territory. The captain settled down with his cup of tea to write the incident report. The door  
chimed.

"Come."

The person who came in was not one of his crew. A tall, slender boy of perhaps seventeen, tow-  
headed and restless. His clothes were black, and suggested a uniform. He stopped just inside the  
door and came to a textbook "attention." Picard reflexively waved a hand. "At ease, mister . . .  
?"

"Paris. Thomas Eugene." A textbook "at ease." Hands folded behind him, feet shoulder width  
apart, steady blue eyes meeting the older man's hazel ones.

Ah, the admiral's son. He'd been identified as the pilot of the Ganymede, flying point position  
when they'd been intercepted by the Enterprise. So he'd been in control of some sort.  
Responsible. Picard looked the boy over. Aristocratic face, fair skin showing a bright contrast to  
the black clothing, long legs. He walked with just a trace of a sway that proto-Fleet training  
hadn't yet bred out of him. Altogether beautiful, altogether Ganymede. Picard's balls tightened a  
little at the sight of the boy. He tried to ignore the sensation.

"What can I do for you, Mr. Paris?"

Now the blue eyes shifted and wouldn't meet his. "I read your message. The one that told us  
what the report to Fleet would say."

"Yes?"

"Look, there's nothing *per se* illegal about deviating from a flight plan, is there?"

"No-o. But it is frowned upon."

"But not illegal," the boy forged on. "And what you're writing looks a hell of a lot like a  
reprimand. Wouldn't it be enough to say that you picked up civilians in a danger area, and leave  
out the deviated flight plan? I'm not asking you to falsify anything, just make the report a little  
less damning."

Picard favoured the young man with a particularly frosty silence.

"OK, leave that for a second. Forget I mentioned it. Just . . . do you really need to send special  
reports to the admirals?"

"It is a customary courtesy."

"Could you not?" The "at ease" had been abandoned. The black-clad body was closer to his  
desk. The expression on the aristocratic face bordered on pleading.

"I think, Mr. Paris, that your father will likely have noticed your absence." Was that a snort?  
Hard to tell. The golden head shook "no."

"He won't notice I'm gone. The ships belong to the McCoys. We were staying at their family  
home in Georgia." Pause. "Please, captain." The door chimed.

"Come," the captain snapped.

Wesley Crusher stepped in. "Sorry to disturb you, Captain. The information you wanted for  
your report came up from engineering." He set a number of padds on the captain's desk, nodded  
to Paris, and left. Picard watched him leave, appreciating the view of that young body in the  
close-fitting uniform, forgetting momentarily the other young man still in the room. Not noticing  
the blue eyes that missed nothing.

Finally, "Captain?" A prompting sound.

His attention snapped back. "The report stands, Mr. Paris. Dismissed. I'm sure you know what  
the word means." He deliberately turned his attention to the padds.

He didn't see the blue eyes spark before Paris turned and stalked out of the room.

*****

It was Jean-Luc Picard's humble opinion that starship captains, when they did duty saving  
civilization, defending the weak, and exploring the farthest reaches of space, should be excused  
from writing reports. After three hours of compiling and composing, his shoulders ached. He  
keyed open his quarters and stepped into the comforting darkness. After years on the Enterprise,  
he no longer needed more than the starlight to find his way around this personal space.

He jumped nearly out of his skin when the voice came out of that darkness.

"Captain Jean-Luc Picard. Age 56. Born Provence, France, Earth. Married and divorced Aline  
Trudeau. As an ensign, assigned to the USS Reliant, promoted and transferred to the . . ."

"Computer, lights!"

". . . Horne as tactical officer." The monologue stopped. Tom Paris sat on the couch in the  
middle of the living area, still dressed in flying black. His mouth curled into a lazy smile.

"How the hell did you get in here?" Picard demanded.

"Locks only keep out the unresourceful." Paris remained seated, but stretched his arms above his  
head, pulling the fabric of his jumpsuit tight against his body.

"What *was* all of that?"

"Your service record, more or less, or the beginning of it. Just wanted to make sure you knew I  
know who you are."

"Why?"

"Because I think we didn't finish our previous conversation on quite the right note."

"I'm not changing my mind."

"Have I asked you to?" The boy's expression was artful. He drew a knee up and wrapped an arm  
around it. The gesture was casual, but again the fabric pulled tight and in the bright illumination  
Picard had ordered, the shape of the leg and the tight curve of the young man's ass were clearly  
detailed. "I just thought we should talk."

"About what?"

"Wesley Crusher." There was a longish pause while Picard considered what to say to this.  
"Sweet kid, really. I don't remember the last time I met someone actually *eager* to join  
Starfleet. You served with his father." It was not a question. "Fleet rumour has it he was your  
lover."

"I beg your pardon! Jack Crusher was a married man and a great friend and I don't need this  
crap from--"

"From me. Yeah. I didn't say I believed the rumour. Just a piece of gossip. I don't think you  
were Jack Crusher's lover."

"Good."

"Because I don't think you're the sort of man who would go lusting after his dead lover's son."

Picard froze. When control asserted itself, he drew all that he had about him. "I think you had  
better leave."

"I didn't say you'd act on it. But I saw the way you looked at that kid. You want him. You won't  
ever have him, but you like to look." At some point in the conversation, Tom had raised himself  
off the couch and moved towards the captain. It was an easy motion, as natural as water flowing.  
Picard only noticed it when the golden body was suddenly deep within his personal space.  
Slender fingers ran down his chest invitingly. "But you can have me."

Hazel eyes widened. "No! I "

He never got any farther, because Tom's arms wrapped themselves around the older man's neck  
and his lips locked on. He was a skillful kisser for someone so young, demanding and soft,  
slipping his tongue into Picard's mouth and stroking palate and teeth before finding the other  
tongue and twining around it. Picard groaned as his body responded to the young one pressed  
against it. He was painfully erect, blood pounding in his groin as Paris rubbed against it with his  
own, equally hard penis through the layers of their clothing. Still the kiss continued. Paris'  
hands slipped down and began to explore, opening the uniform top with deft fingertips and  
slipping inside to tease the nipples to rigidity. The other hand slipped lower and began to rub  
hard at the older man's erection, eliciting further moans.

Picard knew he was out of control. He should push this boy away. He should order him out of  
the room. Instead, he sank his fingers into the shaggy golden hair and Paris lowered himself to  
his knees and opened the Fleet-issue trousers. Warm fingers slipped both pants and boxers off,  
freeing the raging erection that leaped higher at the touch of the cool air. He could feel soft  
breath on his groin, then the sudden, massive heat as that young mouth locked onto his sex and  
sucked him in.

Tom worked carefully on the captain's member. He'd only gone down a couple  
of times before, and never on anyone so, well, *big*. Picard was nearly as hairless below as he  
was above, and the lack of hair meant that the massive erection projected smoothly from the  
body. Tom licked it down its length grinning slightly at the moans coming from above. At the  
head, he pressed the tip of his tongue to the slit, licking away the pre-cum and coaxing more from  
that body, savouring the sharp, salty taste. He left it for a moment, then, and slid his baby-soft  
cheek along that raging length until he'd reached the older man's scrotum. His mouth closed over  
the delicate skin there and he sucked hard. A shudder ran through Picard's body and the hands  
resting in his hair tightened their grip. Tom smiled against the hot skin and drew back slightly.  
Then he closed his lips over the erection again and began the slow process of taking the whole  
thing into his throat.

Picard's body had long since been reduced to a mass of screaming nerves. The delicate mouth  
was working its magic on him. He'd never, ever felt like this. Shock registered when he realized  
that Paris's lips were at his root. He'd taken the whole thing into him, and down his throat, and  
he was still sucking, creating tension on the thin skin, and tracing the network of veins with his  
tongue. Picard pressed his eyes shut and savoured the ecstatic contact, enjoying the heat, the  
wetness, the fantasy that was at once the boy on his bridge and the beautiful young man who was  
even now locked onto him. At some point he'd shrugged the rest of his uniform off; his bare  
shoulders were pressed against the bulkhead.

Then a hand slipped up behind him and between his cheeks and a fingertip penetrated his ass. He  
lost what little control he had left. Hands locked on either side of the golden head, he fucked his  
way in and out of that sweet mouth, loving the sensation, feeling the fingertip still in him and the  
other hand stroking his balls. Harder, deeper into that wet heat and then he came, screaming,  
spurting hard into Paris's mouth. The delicate tongue convulsed slightly, swallowing, and licked  
him clean. The mouth withdrew. Picard sank to the floor, whispering, "Oh gods."

"Mmm," the sensual whisper came back. "We're just getting started." The young man withdrew  
slightly. "A Frenchman, Capitain. Ca va, cher, on peut converser assez bien." A pause.  
"Computer, reduce lighting to 50%, begin music."

Paris straightened. He was still fully clothed, though flushed slightly and panting. A decidedly  
Mona Lisa smile was playing across his lips. Soft acoustic music filled the cabin and a delicate  
woman's voice, singing.

Tes mains peuvent bien se cacher  
tes yeux peuvent bien se baisser  
et tes pensees, oh oui tes pensees  
comme tes cheveuxs s'entremeler

Tom posed, hands provocatively on hips, and allowed Jean-Luc to drink in the sight of him. He  
began his motion slowly, falling into the melody of the music and letting it take him,  
half-dancing until he found a grinding rhythm to carry him. Casually, he stepped out of his shoes  
and toed off his socks. The flesh beneath was obviously fair, but tanned to a bright gold and  
marked white where sandal straps had been. California boy. Jean-Luc's breath was taken away.  
So little bare skin, so very arousing. He was far beyond protesting. Feeling a stirring in his groin  
that spoke of a recovery time he hadn't experienced in years, he let a smile drift onto his own lips  
and decided to enjoy the show.

Tes pas peuvent s'eloigner des miens  
tes secrets se chuchoter moins  
et mes pensees, oh oui mes pensees  
un bouquet d'illusions fanees  
toujours je voudrais te garder  
toujours je voudrais te garder

The black top came off teasingly slowly. Tom lifted it at the hem, one inch, two inches, exposing  
more of that hard, golden body beneath, finally coming up and off, tousling his bright blond hair  
and giving his expression a decidedly impish cast. He threw the soft black fabric to Picard, who  
caught it and pressed it automatically to his face. Sharp, ocean smell of cologne and sweat,  
incredibly enticing.

Comme si de rien n'etait  
on irait faire des ricochets  
entre mer et galets  
nos larmes seraient moins salees

Tom stretched his arms above his head, tightening every muscle in his half-naked body and  
driving Picard into the madness of full arousal. He would have driven the young man to the floor  
if the eight-foot distance between them and the music hadn't made that form maddeningly  
untouchable. Golden skin, greying blue eyes, a smell like the ocean and bright sunlight that he  
hadn't felt against his body for too long . . .

Those long fingers were at the trousers' waistband, unlocking the fastenings so slowly, too  
slowly, hands lingering at every centimetre. Still those slender hips ground in time to the  
progressively more intense music. The delicate fingertips stroked his skin, outlining muscle and  
bone and hinting at an irresistible sexuality.

The Mona Lisa smile deepened as the pants came open and, with a shift of weight, dropped away  
from Tom's body. He stepped out of them and kicked them into the semi-darkness that now  
shrouded the corners of the room.

Les bateaux que l'on regardait  
les ronds que l'on faisait dans l'eau  
et sur le sable, tous nos chateaux  
toujours je voudrais les garder  
toujours je voudrais les garder  
comme si de rien n'etait

Tom's fingers ran over his nearly naked body like a musician thoroughly familiar with his  
instrument. No, that wasn't right. Like a pilot in full connection with his ship, moving at once  
himself and something outside himself, responding instinctively to changes in the vacuum of  
space, understanding the magnetic pull of the warp field. Like Wesley on the bridge, his face  
deep in concentration. Intense. Young. Sweet. Utterly edible. Delicate fingers tracing the lines  
of close-fitting grey briefs that left little to the imagination and cleanly outlined the young man's  
arousal.

It was almost nothing, a flick of the fingers, a shift of the hips, though it should have been  
difficult to circumvent that erection, and the grey fabric came away and disappeared into the  
encroaching dark in the corners. Still moving subtly, Tom Paris stood before him, naked and  
inviting.

Comme si de rien n'etait  
on irait faire des ricochets  
entre mer et galets  
nos larmes seraient moins salees  
comme si de rien n'etait  
courir sur la jetee  
entre vents et marees  
nos larmes pourraient bien secher

Deft pilot's fingers descended and Tom stroked his erection, still tantalizingly out of reach.  
Picard was harder than he'd been before, harder than he'd been in years. He was rapidly coming  
to the point where the only thought in his head would be to fuck this beautiful animal before him,  
fuck him long and hard, desperately . . . . His paralysis remained.

Tom rolled slowly down to his knees and then to all fours. He padded towards the older man,  
still in the rhythm of the music, the shifts of his body emphasizing the erection that had risen up  
to rest against his lower belly. Approaching like a fierce, golden near-liquid, flowing up to  
Jean-Luc as maddening and as deadly as mercury.

Those soft, child's lips reached blindly out and locked onto his.

Comme si de rien n'etait  
si on allait se noyer . . .

The paralysis dissolved. Picard locked his arms around that delicate body and dragged it down to  
him. He *needed* it, needed to feel that young heat along his length. A practised manoeuver  
flipped them over, reversing their positions, so that when they drew back from the kiss Paris's  
head struck the carpeted floor. Blue eyes met hazel ones darkened almost beyond colour with  
lust. Soft lips mouthed one word.

Where?

Jean-Luc rolled to his feet, drawing the other up with him. "Desk," he snapped, and pushed the  
boy toward it. Stopping only to call up lubricant from the replicator, he followed. "Bend over  
it," he ground out. The desk was high, and awkward enough that the young man fumbled the  
action. Picard slipped a hand under the abdomen and lifted until the boy's weight was laid across  
the desk and only the tips of his toes touched the floor. That pale, young ass was offered up to  
him, so sweet that he wanted to drive into it immediately. Only years of experience presented  
him from doing just that.

Coating his fingers with the gel, Picard laid hands on Paris's ass cheeks. A quick jerk parted  
them, revealing the tight, puckered opening. Without hesitation, he drove one finger in right to  
the knuckle, relishing the boy's startled gasp. Oh, this was so good. Sweet, tight. He rotated the  
digit until the tense muscle began to relax, then added a second and began roughly to stretch.

"Oh fuck yes please oh gods thatfeelssogooddon'tstop," Paris ground out. He could feel the cool  
gel smoothing into him, at odds with the rough fingers that sent burning spasms through his ass.  
A third finger entered. His anus was screaming from the violation, but he was so hard it didn't  
matter. Gods, when had he been this hard? Maybe never. His cock felt like flaming steel,  
caught against the cold surface of the desk, grinding with every shift he made. A fourth finger  
and Tom wailed and pushed his hips back against the hand. He felt he was going to tear along  
the rim. He almost didn't care.

The fingers withdrew. Tom sobbed briefly. Hot breath brushed his ear. "Second thoughts, my  
little man? This is your only chance." Tom was far beyond words, but he shook his head  
violently and pushed his hips up, offering himself, spreading his legs as wide as he could.

"Fine," Picard snapped. Strong hands gripped Tom's hips and lifted him slightly. There was a  
moment of contact before penetration, then Picard drove in completely in three massive strokes.

Oh seigneur, oh lord, this boy was so tight, so hot, and he was driving in so hard he was surprised  
that his ears couldn't register the impact like grinding metal. Jean-Luc's brain had given over to  
the friction that even the gel couldn't inhibit entirely. He released Paris's hips and ran his hands  
along the boy's back, feeling bone and muscle and the tanned skin that Wesley Crusher would  
never have after so many years in space. That body was writhing under him, driving him on, and  
he could hear the whimpers of pleasure coming muffled from where he had buried his face in his  
arms.

Picard slipped a hand under the slender body that was bucking against his own and found Tom's  
erection. One hard hand, slick with lubricant and sweat, locked around it and started to pump.  
Paris pressed his face deeper into his arms. Oh gods, this was so sweet he was damned near  
screaming, he hadn't expected it to be this good. His face was wet, mixed salt of sweat and tears.

Picard's lips on the back of his neck, a brief, intimate kiss. The jerks on his cock were so rapid  
now, he was so close to coming . . . he raised his head out of the cavern of his arms, arched back  
his neck, and screamed as he came and as Picard came in him a second later.

*****

Consciousness came back to him slowly, and Jean-Luc realized he was lying in his own bed,  
curled into a semi-fetal position and smiling at the memory of the soft, golden body that had been  
his companion through the night. He reached out an arm to draw his lover to him, but found the  
bed empty. Oh well, perhaps he wondered what people would think if he walked out of the  
captain's quarters at shift change. Actually, people would probably think a great many things, all  
of them correct, but few flattering. He could see Tom later, before he disembarked at spacedock.

Picard eased himself out of bed, groaning a little as aging muscles protested the unexpected  
workout of the night before. Smiled to himself, smiled more as he came into the living area and  
found breakfast waiting for him, with a rose in the vase and a padd beside his plate. The flower  
was a strange hybrid, red petals blurring into yellow ones, a colour he had not seen in roses  
before. He made a mental note to visit the botany department from time to time and discover  
these sorts of things for himself.

Easing into his seat, he bit into a pastry and picked up the padd. And spit his mouthful back onto  
the plate.

At his touch, a vid had begun playback on the padd screen. In a strangely archaic manner, it was  
colourless and silent, monochromatic images stabbing at his eyes. Him fucking Tom Paris,  
pounding into the boy while the young man buried his face in his arms. Hiding his eyes.  
Writhing, struggling.

"Goodness, Captain, looks like he's being a little rough, doesn't it?" The voice-over cut in  
amusedly. Paris's voice. "I think that borders on rape." As he watched, horrified, the aristocratic  
face raised up, contorted into something animalistic, and let loose a silent scream as Picard  
slammed into his ass. "Yeah, I definitely think that looks like rape." The vid continued, but  
Picard dropped the padd to the table and pushed it away from him. He didn't need to remember  
more. Not them against the wall, not the handcuffs Tom had held out so tantalizingly to him. No  
sound in the recording to reproduce the consent that had passed those baby-soft lips, and he had  
already realized that the vid had been edited to exclude Paris's more enticing gestures, his own  
kisses.

"I have a copy of my own," the voice added, "and so will my father, the day and hour that report  
of yours crosses his desk. Just a little silence, Captain. We had a good time, didn't we? No  
report. Comme si de rien n'etait, n'est-ce pas? As if it had never been."

He hadn't noticed the room getting colder, but Jean-Luc Picard was shivering as he crossed his  
quarters and called up the last evening's reports on his console. They hadn't gone out yet. The  
last five, addressed to individual admirals, filled his screen. It would have to be all of them, of  
course, so no one would notice the single omission. They vanished at a brush of his fingers,  
and a word removed them from permanent memory.

Comme si de rien n'etait.

As if it had never been.

As if nothing had ever been.

He was surprised to notice that it didn't even hurt yet.


End file.
